


Let Me See Your Insides (Or Write Me Off)

by cobwebsaint



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: AFAB reader - Freeform, Blood and Injury, Bondage, Branding, Consensual Non-Consent, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emetophilia, Foot Fetish, Forced Orgasm, Grinding, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kidnapping, Kinktober, Knifeplay, Oral Sex, Other, Reader-Insert, Vaginal Fingering, fuck dude idk, genderless reader, it's brief but it's there, there's so much happening here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26924296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobwebsaint/pseuds/cobwebsaint
Summary: You bite your tongue, trying to calm yourself down, eyes locked on him in a trance. Or maybe it’s more like a train wreck you can’t bring yourself to avert your gaze from.
Relationships: Corey Taylor/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 25





	Let Me See Your Insides (Or Write Me Off)

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. I HAVE NO EXPLANATION. THIS IS JUST GROSS. 
> 
> It's my singular contribution to Kinktober since Everything is happening in this fic. So like. Enjoy?
> 
> Reader insert aspect is genderless, no gendered terms, but I did use AFAB anatomical language. You can pretty easily use one of the extensions for AO3 to sub out the word clit for whatever you prefer. I try my best to take care of all the homies. 
> 
> Sorry mom. Sorry God. 
> 
> Moderated comments are on so everyone behave. 
> 
> Also writing this gave me brain damage so I really did not proofread, if you catch any mistakes or wonky shit feel free to let me know so I can make this monstrosity more legible!\
> 
> Title from Noise and Kisses by The Used.
> 
> xoxo

You hadn’t exactly forgotten what it was like to feel this strung out, but it certainly wasn’t the same old familiar face as it had been in the past. It was kind of like a dream. Everything fuzzy around the edges, far away. Like being trapped in a pocket of air while everything else is surrounded with water. If you got lucky, it stayed like that. Faded, blurry, barely there. Floating on air. Even luckier if it really  _ was  _ a dream, after all. 

This wasn’t either. 

Your head feels like it’s about to unscrew itself and fall off your shoulders, limbs heavy. Actually, you can wiggle your fingers and toes a bit, but you’re pretty certain you can’t move at all otherwise. Trying takes too much out of you. Your stomach keeps doing backflips, twisting up in a way that makes the room spin even faster and bile rise to your throat already. There’s an ache in your jaw and in your knees, shooting in hot, razor sharp streaks down your calves. Your senses are having a hard time catching up with anything else.

_ What the fuck happened? _

A light’s on somewhere in front of you. Dim, just enough to make out dark shapes and silhouettes. Not that you can exactly see very well right now to begin with. Honestly, you’re thankful it’s not some bright, fluorescent spotlight right in your face. That’s how these things usually wind up, right? Cold, open, exposed, confused. 

Vulnerable. 

Keeping your head up is a struggle, but given about a minute and a half of consciousness, your self-preservation instinct kicks in. (Or at the very least attempts to, keeping your thoughts straight proves to be even more of a task.)

_ Where are you?  _

You pick your chin up again, willing your eyes to adjust. The light aheads seems to be an exposed bulb, hanging from an incline in the ceiling, seated right at the bottom of… a staircase? Most of the view is obscured by boxes and containers shoved against the wall, but a little further up you can see the cast weaving through slats in what you can only infer to be the railing, sending shadows about a quarter of the way across the floor before they dissipate. 

_ A basement?  _

You try a little harder to move this time, but you’re weak. Not to mention, immediately met with resistance— something biting into your wrists, around your ankles. Your arms are locked behind you. You try to twist them out of their bindings, to no avail. It’s not rope, far too thin and harsh to be rope. They’re fucking  _ tight  _ too. You can still feel your fingers but it aches. Add that to the ever mounting list.

Now the panic starts to hit you. 

Shifting in the seat you’re bound to, you make a noise, a little too loud to be a whimper but not loud enough to be a cry. It’s muffled. Your jaw aches.  _ Shit.  _ You bite down into something rubbery, realizing you’re gagged on top of it all. 

_ No, no, no. What the fuck. _

Either somebody’s been watching too many fucked up horror flicks or you’re about to get your fucking heart carved out of your chest. 

You take a deep breath, exhaling shakily around the gag, feeling a string of drool fall down your chin. A wave of exhaustion rolls over you, and it’s all you can do to resist gagging and upchucking whatever you had in your stomach. You certainly weren’t a stranger to finding yourself in some nasty snags, but you have no fucking clue how the you’re supposed to wiggle your way out of this one. You’re pretty sure you couldn’t even stay awake long enough.

You close your eyes, head lulling forward, making a fruitless attempt to will away the nausea and the dizziness and the dull ache in every one of your limbs. That and praying that relief came sooner rather than later. Whether that came in death or safety or by the grace of fucking god, this  _ not  _ being what it’s shaping up to be, you don’t really care. 

Just as you think you’ve steadied yourself enough, there’s a rustle behind you. It sounds louder than it really is, amplified by the state you’re in, but it’s definitely the sound of fabric. Clothes. Somebody moving? 

There’s a squeak, like an old folding chair, and careful yet deliberate footsteps come from behind you. 

Closer.

_ Thunk. _

Closer.

_ Thunk.  _

Closer.

Your heart starts to race, and you struggle against your restraints again. They feel like they’re cutting straight into your skin, but you can’t even find it in yourself to care. The thought of  _ degloving  _ one of your hands just to get out of this fucking chair isn’t so far fetched at the moment. 

This is bad. This is  _ bad  _ bad. Every ounce of self and strength you still have are telling you to run, but you can’t. No matter how hard you try, you can’t get anywhere. You’re too weak, too sick, you’re tied down too tight. The longer you fight and stare ahead at the maze of boxes before you, the further away it all seems to get. 

You’re fucked.  _ You’re so fucked. _

The footsteps stop maybe a foot behind you. You can feel them, whoever they are. The warmth coming off of them compared to the chill of your bare skin. Their breath in the air. It’s almost as if they’re pondering for a moment, before a gentle hand comes down against your shoulder. You flinch, try to jerk away, but it’s no use. You’re light headed before momentum even catches up with you. Tears well up in your eyes, you cry out around the gag, only to be promptly shushed. 

It’s not harsh like you expect. Soft, almost soothing, understanding. 

They squeeze your shoulder, thumb brushing over the back of your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine. All you can do is sit, tense, on guard, squeeze your eyes shut and cry harder. 

Fingertips trace over your collarbone and you hear more movement as the touch falls away. They walk off to the left of you and you hear the click of a switch. A light overhead buzzes to life, and even through your eyelids, it makes your head sear. 

Footsteps approach again, stopping in front of you this time. Joints crack and hands rest on the tops of your thighs, slowly climbing up to your hips, your waist, chest, landing cupped around your cheeks. A little timid and unsure. 

Your heart’s in your throat.

A sob tears through you, your whole chest fucking aches between whatever hell your body had already been through and your heart working overtime and struggling just to keep air in your lungs. 

_ Nonononono. Not this, anything but this. Please, god, no. _

At this point you’re praying— no,  _ begging _ that you don’t pass out again. It’s like your soul’s being torn from your body piece by agonizing piece. 

They shush you again, but it’s not until you hear the voice that you come crashing back to earth, even if you are still burning up in the atmosphere. 

“Shhh, baby, c’mon. You’re okay.” Their voice is low, but it rumbles through stagnant air like an avalanche. “You’re okay.”

You stop cold. Stop crying, stop moving, stop breathing. You reckon your heart probably skips a beat at first too before going right back to throbbing against your ribcage. No. No, no, no. That can’t be right. It’s the drugs or whatever. Your mind playing tricks on you in the wake of your own desperation. It can’t be him. 

“That’s it. See? It’s only me.” His voice comes again and you fidget in your seat. You open your eyes, looking out through heavy lids. They need a minute to adjust, but the man in front of you slowly starts to take shape. Icy blue eyes and light curls framing a kind face. 

So maybe it’s not some fucked up delusion in the name of self preservation. At least you don’t think you’re hallucinating. This doesn’t feel like a trip. You’re a little fuzzy, but you’d like to think you know the difference by now. This is real. Solid. Focused. Clear in view. If nothing else, this  _ definitely  _ isn’t the high.

His thumbs brush tears away from your cheeks. With your attention, it’s a lot more familiar and confident. A gesture he’s well acquainted with, done it a million times before. And somehow it works. A bit of the tension melts out of your body. Even cold and naked and strapped to a fucking  _ chair _ , he can still reach inside you and soothe some of the ache. 

You attempt to say something to the effect of “What’s happening?” but it comes out garbled and incoherent around the gag secured tightly between your teeth. More saliva dribbles down your chin, collecting between your collarbones and slicking down your sternum. 

“Ah,” He tuts, “Let me do the talking here.”

Corey’s eyes meet yours and you’re jelly in his hands. 

“‘M sorry. I know this isn’t exactly, uh—  _ ideal _ . Shit’s just been so busy lately. I miss you. Need you to myself for a while. No distractions. Nobody else to interrupt.”

You squeeze your eyes shut again, a few more tears spilling over. He had mentioned it. Wanting to get a little more time in, that he  _ might  _ be planning a little surprise of sorts for you. You agreed in passing; of course, you assumed that meant a fancy dinner or a weekend getaway. Knocked out and dragged into what you’re now realizing to be your  _ own  _ basement wasn’t exactly the first thing that crossed your mind when you heard that. 

But here you are. 

“Hey, hey, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I probably went a little fuckin’ crazy on this one, huh? Probably shoulda given at least a little warning, I know, but I wanted it to be special. Just like we’ve talked about before. Make up for not being around enough, y’know?”

Clearly he’s connected a whole lot more dots than you have. 

The fuck is he talking about?

Conversations about weird, fucked up, theoretic situations and fantasies happen, sure. You’re both famous for your crazy ass tangents about shit that wouldn’t cross  _ anybody’s  _ mind on a regular old Tuesday afternoon— that’s what made you such a pair.

There was a vague shape of a conversation about some of the more  _ taboo  _ things you’d be down for in your head. Your list of  _ ‘why nots’  _ wasn’t exactly  _ short _ , but it was still a pretty far cry from actually making it happen. Or, y’know. Being in the thick of it at the moment. But, curiously, you’re also not too terribly desperate to get out of it, knowing whose hands you’re in.

Your nerves start to wane, and you take a deep, staggering breath to try and center yourself. 

“There you go. See, I got you, baby. Gonna take real good care of you. It’ll be worth it.”

Corey gets to his feet again, pressing a kiss to your forehead on the way up. He weaves back around you, wandering off to the little perch he’d been seated at before. There’s a minute of pensive quiet, then more rustling about, and something metallic falls to the concrete floor. You hear him curse under his breath, but you’re more focused on the piercing pain in your head and your stomach beginning to churn much worse than before. 

Right. This is why you got sober. You were tired of feeling like death incarnate. You didn’t even wanna think about the consequences of this whole fucking thing long term. If it turned out that Corey wasn’t planning on gutting you here in a minute.  _ If. _

The feeling rises to your throat, overwhelming your senses, quickly becoming unbearable. You retch, tears roll down your cheeks, bile and spit spilling out around the gag and dribbling down your chin, neck, bare chest. You feel utterly fucking disgusting. Miserable. You want to cry again. You don’t know what else you  _ can  _ do. You cough and choke, exerting all your energy into trying not to inhale any and die a little too preemptively. 

Corey whips around at the sound of your muffled gags, and he’s back in front of you in an instant, muttering some string of expletives as he reaches around your head and undoes the buckle strap, carefully taking the gag out of your mouth and tossing it to the floor. The loud clatter brings the nausea and the pounding back around almost instantaneously. 

You figure he probably didn’t plan on that happening, although from what you can make out, he doesn’t seem mad about it. More… intrigued than anything. He’s got his head cocked to the side like a puppy and he swipes his thumb over your chin as you spit, in some sort of attempt to clear away the mess. 

“Fuck,” he says, leaning in closer. “Sorry. Just.” 

Corey swings a leg over your lap, sitting straddled across your thighs. He runs his fingers over your chest, through the spit and sick, and rubs them together as he retracts, examining the fluid with curious eyes as it strings between his digits. 

His gaze flits back up to meet yours, then to your mouth, still agape as you’re trying to catch your breath. You can almost see the gears in his head turning. 

Before you have time to figure it out, there are two of his fingers sliding over your tongue. You whimper around them, your stomach turning at the taste of your own cold bile alone. He persists, forcing them deeper into your mouth, past the ridge on the back of your tongue. You heave again, body lurching forward as a fresh spew of vomit spills down your front.

You lay into his chest with a feeble mewl. Soft and warm and safe. Even with whatever his game was here, it’s the only place you want to be. Still holding out hope, cuz he promised he’d always love you. Promised he’d always take care of you, never let anything happen to you, no matter how fucked things got. You want to trust him still. Give him the benefit of the doubt. Probably could have been a lot worse by now if he really wanted to hurt you. Corey never was the type to play with his food. 

Strong hands cradle your face as he pulls back, still close but enough to be able to get a good look at you in all your wretched glory. Somehow there’s still that same twinkle of adoration in his eyes that makes your heart jump out of your chest and your stomach do backflips. It was a sort of tell you’d picked up on over the years. The source of the warmth he always gave off. From the day you met, to your first date, the day he told you he loved you, and when he promised he'd stay forever. Every single time he met your eyes, the same wash of sunshine and sincerity. 

“So fuckin’ pretty. Jesus…” You want to roll your eyes. Pretty’s a choice word, all things considered. Not that it’s shocking, coming out of his mouth. Always the sweet talker. 

“Won’t even ask if you’re okay. I know you’ve gotta feel like shit. I’ve heard the comedown on K fuckin’ sucks. We’ll get it out of your system though.” He bows his head and presses his lips to your forehead, his hands sliding around to the back of your head, fingers entwining in your hair. He fits like a puzzle piece against you, and makes you feel just as whole. His voice drops to a whisper. “I got you, baby. Gonna take real good care of you.”

He lingers there for a moment, peppering your skin in tender little kisses, before getting to his feet for a moment. You whine at the loss of the warmth and the weight, and on account of the mess that had been made of the both of you. There’s a part of your brain still screaming at you for not fighting back harder, but you’re utterly powerless here. 

Your eyes drift shut again, and you can’t be sure if you were out for another minute or not, but you’re drawn back by Corey taking his spot in your lap. His hand’s pressed into the front of your throat— no pressure, just holding your head up— and he steals an earnest kiss. “Think you got some more for me?”

Your brows knit together.  _ More what? _

Once again, you try and pose the question, but his fingers are in your mouth once more before the words can piece themselves together.

_ Oh.  _

They swipe across the back of your tongue, and you shake your head, squinting your eyes shut, trying to pull away. You have a feeling he doesn’t care, cuz he doesn’t take the hint. Instead, he quiets you down again, tells you to trust him. What choice do you have? Dreadful as you feel, you’re at his will.

This time, you’re left choking for a while until anything comes up, all drool and fresh tears streaming down your face before the next flood of puke flows between your bodies, filling all the gaps. The sensation, hot and sticky and fucking  _ vile _ , suffices to make you gag again without the help. 

He swears under his breath, hips stuttering, grinding slick against your stomach. Now you’re hyper aware of his cock, half hard, pressed against your belly. More of the pieces start to fall into place. 

“Good, sweetheart. That’s so fuckin’ good.” Corey wipes at your face to clean you up before tucking his face away into your neck, kissing at your jaw, all the way along to nip at your earlobe and the soft spot beneath, steadily dicking against you all the while. “Still wanna know how the hell I got somebody as astonishing as you. Beyond all I could ever dream of. So goddamn lucky.”

You crane your neck as he moves over your pulse point, sucking and biting and lashing his tongue at the skin, leaving a pretty pink mark behind. Heat begins to collect and knot up in the pit of your stomach and you keen softly. God knows this shouldn’t be hot. It’s  _ not  _ hot. It’s fucking gross and sick and awful but he’s still got that spellbinding, intoxicating magic about him that makes you dissolve straight onto his tongue, fall to pieces, right into place. 

Corey’s lips find yours again and it’s like he’s trying to swallow you whole, the way he invades all of your senses. Mouths melded together and the way licks in with practiced intent, the taste of coffee and cigarettes and whatever it is that makes him so sweet and keeps you hooked on him like nothing else. He’s wriggled his hand between the two of you and wrapped it around his dick, fucking into it and letting go of these light, breathy little moans as he finds his stride, but that’s the least of your concerns. You’d rather focus on the hungry, desperate way he kisses you, like it’s his last lifeline. His fingers twisting through the baby hairs on the back of your neck. The way he lays his whole weight into you and doesn’t try to rein back and avoid all the awkward shit. The teeth and the noses knocking together and little gasps for breath in between. All real and genuine and present. All Corey. 

Doubting him and his intentions made your whole world fall apart, and you don’t think you can take your heart aching that bad too. 

That aside, thinking was too much work. Allowing yourself to be fully immersed in him was effortless. 

Corey lays against your shoulder, still closely tucked into your neck— heavy, labored breaths practically burning your skin. He’s mouthing over marks, old and new, mapping out the familiar planes of your body, and his thrusts have gotten lazy but he’s jerking himself off with fervor. The squelching sound is really no different than it usually is with lube or deepthroat spit, but it’s still somehow worse. Makes you woozy. You try to tune it out. 

These syrupy sweet, broken little moans fall from his lips like honey, providing a more than adequate distraction. It’s a sound that makes your gut twist and your muscles clench and your whole chest swell, even in the oddest of circumstances. And y’know, this had to be the oddest by far. Serves as a reminder, he can’t get enough of you either.

You nuzzle into the crook of his neck where it meets his shoulder and his hair is swept over, out of his way. You breathe in leather and sweat and woods and something a little sweet and floral and it puts you right at home. Miles away. You can’t seem to rally your muscles to be able to kiss at the lines and the scars and the stupid tattoos that virtually begged to be nipped at but you figure the sentiment is there. 

You’re just… so tired. 

He starts to lose his rhythm, his breath catching in his throat, nails clawing at the back of your neck, making goosebumps roll down your spine. Corey locks both arms around you and starts rutting against your belly in earnest, putting his whole back into it. “Oh, fuckin’  _ hell, _ ” he says through gritted teeth. “Bet you like this, hmm? Taking you and having my way with you. That what you’re after, baby?” He growls in your ear, voice all spent and husky. 

The floor drops out from under you and your heart jumps into your throat. You squeak since your voice still eludes you. 

All he does is laugh. 

You can tell he’s closer than he wants to let on by the way he’s flexing his fingers and arching his back, tensing up at every little bit of friction. If you’re being honest, you could probably live in this little moment forever. But, y’know. Strike all the sick and the whole being strapped to a chair thing. Maybe some part of you did really need this. Feeling close and complete and wanted. Needed. 

He hugs tighter around your neck, seemingly bracing himself as his hand finds its way back to your face, fingers hooking into your mouth again. He shifts back enough to look down at you with an intensity that makes your heart hammer. You don’t try to resist. 

After some strain, another river of puke spews down between the two of you and almost immediately you feel Corey go rigid, fucking against you in involuntary thrusts as he comes. Looks like he’s seeing stars. He collapses, chanting your name in between expletives like a prayer. You close your eyes and relax into him, aching for a whole new list of reasons. You want to touch him. Feel him and hold him, make him feel just as loved as he does you. 

Then again, you have to to remember; this is all by his design. 

Before you get too wrapped around the thought, he’s all over you once more. Hands soft on your face, wiping your chin, placing kisses to every inch of clean skin in reach. He’s always been good like that. Affable and considerate and attentive. Giving you this pavlovian sense of ease. 

You make sure to cherish it, considering you have a sneaking suspicion he’s nowhere near done with you.

“You alright, baby?” His voice cuts through the fog, reeling you back in. You can only groan softly and make some sort of noncommittal nod. He knows the answer, but it’s more a formality than anything. Glimmer of concern behind the whole charade. Or, y’know. Here’s to hoping, at the very least. 

Sure enough, much too soon for your liking, he slides out of your lap and up onto uneasy legs. There’s a sickly wet sound as more vomit splashes to the floor. You can see phlegm and spit sticking to Corey’s stomach in a thin veil. 

Something about it triggers memories of people getting slimed on Nickelodeon for shits and giggles back in the 90s. Maybe this was how whatever bigwig exec had  _ that  _ bright idea came up with it. Never know. 

You don’t even bother looking down at yourself, knowing damn well you wouldn’t exactly enjoy the scene. You can feel it, and that’s more than enough. Not to mention the sheen of cold sweat all over your body and the tears and the cum and the air being  _ impossibly  _ fucking cold tying the whole thing together. 

He walks around you and a moment later you hear a scrape against the concrete like he’s picking something up, then a muffled sigh. Satisfied but spent. At least somebody’s getting something out of this. 

The thought sounds less bitchy in your head. Not that you don’t have every right to be bitchy at the moment.

When you open your eyes again, Corey’s back kneeling before you. He’s cleaned himself up to some extent and he’s got a couple towels with him, making some attempt at clearing away all the sick on you as well. Being slightly more lucid now, you can’t help but wonder what the hell the towels were for in the first place. Clearly he didn’t account for your tolerance being so low. That was all off script. 

A pit forms in your stomach, realizing this  _ for sure  _ wasn’t the end of his schemes. 

_ What more could there be? _

Corey tosses the towel aside and bows his head, nudging your legs a little further apart so he can mouth kisses along the soft, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. 

“Now that we got that out of the way,” he says, and the vibrations run through you like electricity. “We can really get down to it. How’s that sound to you, doll?” His eyes flash up to you expectantly. 

Everything’s still pulsing and spinning and the cold’s leaching into your fingers and toes, your restraints cut further into your wrists and ankles by the minute. Everything’s bruised and achy. 

You nod your head yes. 

“Hey,” he reaches up and lays a hand gently against your cheek, really capturing your attention now. “You with me, love?”

The look on his face is earnest, soft. Bona fide Corey Taylor. 

“Yeah,” you croak out, voice weak and wavering. It hardly even sounds like you. “Yes.” 

“Good.” He nods, reaches down to grab something down by his side, and suddenly you feel something cold and sharp scrape a fine line along your thigh. You look down and see red beading up from your skin. It’s not more than a chicken scratch, but it’s there. You audibly gulp, breath catching in your throat.

“Now,” he muses, spinning the tactical knife he has in hand on its point, still pressed to your flesh. “You think you can be good for me, baby? Think you can behave?” 

You nod again quickly, shifting, sitting up a little straighter in your seat. “I can. I will.”

“Promise?” His eyes glint in the low light, something dark behind them. A lump forms in your throat. 

“Promise,” you affirm, not above a whisper. 

He trails the knife point past your knee, down your leg with a gentle hand, careful not to actually break skin this time but enough to send a shudder through you. Then you feel the blade press hard into the side of your calf and you pull your face into an anticipatory wince. 

Something snaps. 

You yelp as a reflex, but there’s no pain. Or rather, no  _ more  _ pain— just a pop and release, the sting of frigid air, like ripping off a bandaid or pouring peroxide on a wound. You roll your ankle around, kick your leg out just a bit, and breathe a sigh of relief. Only your restraints. Could be worse. Not at full bodily mutilation just yet. 

He presses his palm to your shin and pushes your leg back into place. It’s not aggressive, but it’s stern. “Hey, don’t start getting any ideas. You’re not going anywhere unless I say so. Understood?”

You nod again, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Your heart’s about ready to jump out your throat. 

He moves to your right and cuts the other zip tie, from what you can gather, loose from around your ankle. You’re sure not to move this time. Corey rises to his feet and slides back into your lap, and you’re almost grateful that he does. It feels more like him. Brings some sort of comfort and security to the whole situation. Even if it may be false. 

With his left hand, he holds the blade to your neck, teeth on the serrated base of it biting into your skin. You inhale sharply, breath starting to waver. You can hear you pulse in your ears and you’re pretty sure he can too. With his right, he traces down your front with a practiced touch, stopping just between your hips. 

“Don’t you forget that promise. I know you don’t wanna let me down.” He flashes this self-satisfied little smile and his fingertips dance over the soft trail beneath your navel. Corey leans in close, purring in your ear. “You know, you don’t have to pretend like you don’t like this. I can see it in your eyes. You need me. Just as bad as I need you.” 

He lets go of a quiet gasp as two fingers slide along your slit, collecting up slick and rubbing lazy circles to your clit. You nearly choke on air yourself, stumbling over some string of  _ “jesus, fuck, god.”  _ Your body wants to fall against his again, but you’re stopped by the knife blade, harsh against your throat. It nearly takes you by surprise, the twist and throb in your gut you’ve desperately been trying to ignore. You don’t want to admit it, but he’s right. You can’t help what he does to you. The way that part of your brain, still totally enamored, responds so well. Still, there’s no way in hell you see this going anywhere good. 

You’re far too drained. He can use you however he sees fit if it means this comes to an end faster, but  _ anything  _ would be better than this. Him touching you. Expecting something out of you. You can’t. 

His fingers sink inside of you and as a reflex, you close your legs. “ _Corey_ ,” you plead, voice trembling, teary. “No. _No._ _Please_.” 

“Shhh, stop,” he says in the same low whisper, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Let me. Come on— don’t disappoint me, baby. Don’t forget this is all for you.” Corey latches onto your earlobe, sucking and nibbling and pulling with his teeth, and you moan in earnest, but cut it off quick. 

“I can’t—“ you start, but he’s one step ahead. 

“You can and you will.”

He’s working his fingers in and out of you, curling them at  _ just  _ the right angle, and he’s thumbing your clit with every movement and it’s too much. This mix of pain and pleasure and fear crash over you in waves and make the whole room spin and the tears start to come again before you even realize it. 

You sound like a broken record with every  _ “no, please, stop.”  _ Like some sort of Hail Mary between broken sobs and whimpers. Like it’ll make any difference. You’re not even sure you believe the words coming out of your mouth anymore.

Just as he’s got you pulled into this rhythm, he stops as suddenly as he started— pulls back from whispering praise in your ear to suck his fingers into his mouth and taste you on them. You bite your tongue, trying to calm yourself down, eyes locked on him in a trance. Or maybe it’s more like a train wreck you can’t bring yourself to avert your gaze from. 

“Don’t cry, doll,” he says, laying his hand to the center of your chest, leaning in, licking the salty tears from your cheeks. “Gonna make you feel real good. Make it all go away.”

With that, he slips out of your lap and back to his knees, taking the blade at your throat with him and setting it to his side. At the very least, you can breathe again, but what’s coming doesn’t particularly make you want to continue. 

Corey tucks his hands behind your knee, runs one carefully down the back of your calf to your ankle, and extends your leg out for better access. He scoots back a bit and starts peppering kisses to the inside of your ankle, your heel, the ball of your foot, before licking a stripe from heel to toe. He takes his time, placing each one with intent to the top of your foot and up your shin. He drops your leg back down once he gets back to your kneecap, eyes flashing up to watch as he chomps down into the meat of your thigh. 

You bite the inside of your lip hard enough to draw blood and your whole body tenses, though you’re still trying your best not to move much. He milks another sob from you through clenched teeth, then soothes it with his tongue and another few kisses, paying a little extra attention to that spot. When he moves off of it you can see the impressions of his teeth and the blood pooling up under the skin and you curse the way it makes your insides churn and your gut fill with butterflies. 

He works his way up the inside of your thigh, reaching the crease of your hip, laving his tongue along it, lapping up the sweat collected up on the skin, before he plants his hands on either of your legs and forces them apart. You cry out, going right back to begging and pleading for him to just let you be, but it’s apparent he’s not listening. 

Corey hooks his arms under your legs and pulls you towards the edge of the chair, right into him. He licks into you, looking up through his lashes and curls falling into his face, and your sobs dissolve into short little mewls and hiccups. God knows it was only fueling his fire. Heat’s building in the pit of your stomach fast and it makes you want to fucking  _ scream _ . 

He closes his mouth over your clit, wet and soft and hot and skilled, and you’re practically in a puddle. He knows exactly where to prod to get you in the palm of his hand and  _ fuck,  _ it’s working. You rut your hips up into his mouth and he moans around you and you can feel the low rumble of his voice roll over you like a shockwave. 

Your eyes roll back in your head and an earnest moan falls from your lips as he pulls off you with a little  _ pop  _ before going right back in, working the flat of his tongue along your slit, pushing inside you. He props one of your legs up over his shoulder to free up his right hand, reaches back under, teases two digits over your hole before sinking home, settles back into a steady rhythm as he fucks into you. Whatever protests you had before are long gone now. You’d have a hard time stringing together a coherent sentence if you tried. 

Corey’s eyes flutter shut. You feel his soft, shallow breaths hot against your skin and his every move careful and attentive and purposeful. Unwinding all the strings and pulling you apart. He makes these sweet little sounds, completely enraptured. It’s like looking directly at the sun sometimes, the way he gets so absorbed in you. Makes you feel like you’re the only fucking thing in the world. It makes you feel so whole and so small and fragile at the same time. Your stomach in knots and your heart rapping at your ribs, still threatening to cut and run at any minute. 

You keen as his fingers curl up into your g-spot and your budding orgasm starts to hook its snares into you. Your legs start to shake and you try to reach out— slide your fingers into his hair, halfway between pushing him away and pulling him in impossibly closer, getting him to slide his fingers just a little deeper inside of you— but you’re stopped by the zip ties still secured tight around your wrists. You whine, then decidedly use your one leg draped over his shoulder as leverage to bring him in further. Much to your relief, he doesn’t protest. 

You’re still rolling your hips into him to the best of your ability and  _ god, _ he’s hitting every nerve just right. He’s taken the hint, fucking his fingers into you harder and faster and deeper and he brings you  _ right  _ up to your peak. Corey pulls away for half a second to get a good look at you and probably catch his breath for a moment and he’s got this fucked up, blissed out, dreamy look on his face with spit and precum all down his chin and that’s all it takes to send you over. 

Your orgasm hits you like a brick wall. You squeeze your eyes and your legs shut and arch your back, grinding against his hand as you come all over his fingers. Corey’s saying something, but whatever it is, you can’t hear it. 

For a moment you’re in orbit. You’re vaguely aware of Corey sliding his fingers out of you, pressing little kisses to your stomach, then you feel his arms around you and suddenly you're down in his lap. Your hands are free. Your brain’s still not forming full coherent thoughts, but as soon as it registers that you can now, your arms are around him. Face pressed into his shoulder with his hair soft against your face, his skin dewey against your own. Then you’re back home. 

“Okay?” He asks as he presses kisses to the crown of your head. This time it’s an actual question, rather than a statement or a suggestion. You nod your head and stay quiet, soaking him in. His scent and his warmth and his tenderness that seems to all flood back at once. 

“Good, you did so good. Fuckin’ impressed, I won’t even lie.” He chuckles, combing his fingers through your hair, massaging at your scalp the way he knows you love so much. “Never gonna want to forget that one, huh?” 

You snort a laugh and pick your head up just enough to see his profile. “Don’t know how I could.”

“Mmm, fair point. But what if I had an idea to make sure you never will?” He’s got that glint in his eyes again. Oh jeez. 

There’s a sharp, cold prick to your stomach and he’s looking at you expectantly. Your breath hitches, but you’re not saying no. Though you don’t say yes out loud, Corey seems to read your mind. He knows he’s already got it. 

With a devious smile, he pulls back and gets to work. It stings, enough to make you gasp and whine in discomfort, and it’s noticeably deeper than the scratch down your thigh, but with all the adrenaline pumping through your veins it’s not nearly as painful as it would be otherwise. 

Once he’s done and sets the blade back down again, there’s a jagged ‘CT’ carved between your ribs, blood streaking down your stomach and mixing with god only knows what else. There’s a stir somewhere deep in your gut at the sight of it, the implications. You’re sure you’ll get a round two later, after you’re all clean and cozy and taken care of again— but for now you just circle back around him, telling him all about how he's gross. 

Like you’re not the one who plotted this whole scheme in the first place. 


End file.
